


The things we do for love

by Taeyn



Series: echo, I will not talk with thee [1]
Category: Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French, The Likeness - Fandom
Genre: Abby sleepwalks, Daniel is Daniel, Developing Relationships, F/M, Gen, Gothic Romance, Justin is under the weather, M/M, Magic Realism, Rafe is not a morning person, Urban Fantasy, Whitethorn House, or thereabouts, set during the events of the book, told from Cassie’s perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/pseuds/Taeyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I often think of my time in the house as a collision of extremes, all black and all white, nothing in halves. We had those midnights, that darkness, where everything we said and did happened in an instant and spiralled into a thousand lives, like all the books we ever read. The mornings when it was just us, the kettle, and Daniel smiling and quoting Faust while he passed around eggs and toast. And sometimes, in the split second when I blinked between, I could feel the whole world slide from one to the other. And I never knew which was which.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things we do for love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzBaby466](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzBaby466/gifts).



_Echo, I will not talk with thee,_

_for thou art a dead thing._

 

**\- I -**

Working undercover, you cut a fine line between feeling and knowing, intuition and insight. Frank always said intuition is the leap- the one I made at every corner, every smile, every hairsbreadth of a second where I had to decide whether to laugh or cry. Dangerous, but not half so much as knowing what’s on the other side. Or guessing you do. Because no matter how good of an actor I was- no matter how good of an actor I _am_ … you can’t cheat the landing. The moment you think it ends with a fall, is always going to be the moment you look down.

In truth, I could’ve lived there forever. It was a feeling that started the night we danced and collapsed and let the night swallow us whole, a feeling I’d never quite leave behind. But that’s the difference, that’s the line. It wasn’t until I closed my eyes, that I knew I had long since fallen. And forever had already been and gone.

-

“Oh my _goodness_ , Rafe, you scared the bajeezus out of me!”

I hardly ever heard Abby raise her voice. Even when she’d laugh or sing over the piano, it was always smothered by whatever ruckus the rest of us were making. So when Rafe burst into the room hollering- something about Justin forgetting to bring in the firewood- and Abby gave an astonished shout… I couldn’t help grinning alongside.

“Don’t encourage him, Lexie!” Abby’s attempt at a poker-face dissolved as Rafe swung the three of us in a lopsided pirouette. “And if _you_ weren’t so tipsy, Rafe, you’d remember Thursday is _your_ night with the firewood!”

“ _I’m_ tipsy?” Rafe’s cigarette almost fell out of his mouth as he poked Abby beneath her ribcage, all of us a snare of elbows and hands and wineglasses.

“Not tipsy enough,” I nodded ever so seriously, untangling myself to reach for the dregs of the bottle. I think I might’ve told myself I wasn’t quite as bad. But, to be honest, at that point I’m pretty sure I still thought it was Wednesday. I do remember wondering why Daniel was passing me a carafe of water instead.

“I think Justin may have gone to bed,” he said lightly. Which, knowing Daniel, meant it was a certainty. “He wasn’t feeling too well when we got back.”

“Ohh…” Abby stilled, face falling whilst her hand remained thrust in some kind of impromptu waltz with Rafe. “Is he alright? He didn’t eat much after tutorials.”

It was usually Justin who fussed and fretted over who wasn’t eating, but with a man down, Abby wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the slack.

“I’ll see if he’s up to a bite now,” I jumped in, not missing a beat. I suddenly felt a good deal more sober, and had to remind myself to throw a wobble into my step on route to the kitchen. “I just bought a ready-soup from Dunne’s too. I must be psychic.”

“Need a helping hand?” Rafe called after me. Daniel’s eyes swept across my back.

“I’m grand,” I yelled back, sloshing half the cold chicken broth into a pot. I threw him a deliberate wink once I’d got the gas flame going. “But if you want me to put the question to Justin…”

Rafe gave a dramatic roll of his eyes, the crooked smile giving more away then he usually cared to admit. I saw the tension ease from Daniel’s posture. The soup hissed from the stove.

“Oops!” Nipping back out of sight, I succeeded in transferring the hot liquid into a mug before it frothed beyond repair. Funnily enough, cooking had once been one of my strong suits. Apparently it hadn’t been Lexie’s. “I hope Justin’s hungry. I… may have gotten a little over-enthused here.”

Abby came in to peek over my shoulder, then laid one of the breakfast trays with a placemat and slice of famer’s loaf. Seeing I’d filled the mug to the brink of spilling, she plucked a stem of parsley from our windowsill stash and somehow still made it all look presentable.

“Even if he isn’t, he’ll appreciate the gesture,” she said kindly.

“Can I heat up the rest of this?” Rafe leaned through the door behind us, inspecting the half-empty soup tub with vague curiosity.

“With half tonight’s roast still in the fridge…” Daniel said witheringly. But I could hear him re-lighting the gas as I made my way up the stairs. It saved him spotting that my balance no longer wavered. Not while I was on the job.

-

“Lexie?”

Justin’s voice sounded thick and blurry, knotted rough from sleep. I guessed I wasn’t the one he expected, but then again, Lexie was ever spontaneous over habitual. So maybe it wasn’t too strange. Either way, Justin’s smile was genuine, and he shuffled up beneath the bedcovers to make room.

“Hey, you,” I said softly, nudging away some crumpled tissues to set the breakfast tray on the bedside. “You missed dinner. And Rafe’s grand rendition of Rachmaninov’s third, minus a couple of bars here and there.”

“Oh god,” Justin looked genuinely horrified. “Is _that_ what that noise was? I thought you lot had decided to restore the piano with a couple of hammers. I was worried for the rest of the toolbox.”

“Well, that answers my question,” I stuck my tongue out, making it clear the bedroom wasn’t off-limits for me flicking a spoonful of broth at him. “Definitely under the weather, if your jokes actually make sense.”

He laughed, eyes immediately watering as he shook his head and raised his sleeve to cough. It didn't sound too good, and I felt a small ache of _I-didn’t-know-what_ unfurl below my ribs. He gave me a mournful blink, rubbing his chest with a wince.

“Ouch…” I offered a sympathetic groan.

“Mm,” Justin gave my knee a reassuring pat with his free hand. “I felt fine this morning, can you believe it…”

“It happens to the best of us.”

“So not you and Daniel then,” Justin winked, then blushed pink as he fumbled for a pocket-pack of tissues stowed under the blankets. “Pardon me-” he turned away as his inhale tripped and gathered, sneezing fitfully and apologising almost as many times in between.

“Hold on… teamwork,” I said helpfully, and we managed a seamless manoeuvre of Justin scrunching away the used tissue and holding his breath long enough for me to pass him a new one.

“ _Lexie-”_ Justin gave a stuffy laugh as I started pre-emptively pulling out several more. “I’m done- wait- okay, now I’m done. Sorry.”

He gave an exhausted sniffle, then flopped both hands back into his lap, looking much like he was ready to keel over beside. I took the opportunity to tuck an extra pillow behind his back.

“Ah, thanks,” he said quietly, the flush slowly fading from his cheeks. “And for the supper. And chit-chat. I appreciate it.”

“But…?” I grinned, figuring the soup had cooled enough for me to guilt him into a sip.

“Well, I’m a tad…” he raised an eyebrow, settling into a despairing frown.

“Drippy?” I finished, knowing it wasn’t near proper enough for him to agree to. And it was easier to get him eating when he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself.

“Wha- no!” Justin swapped wounded for mildly affronted, then glared at me over the top of the mug as he swallowed. We sat in comfortable enmity for a few seconds, before he sighed and wriggled his feet under my legs to keep warm. “I guess I’ll shake it off in a few days. Or let Rafe borrow it, or something. How are you, though?”

And there it was. Right then, as he tried not to glance at my bandage, taking an audible gulp of soup to fill the silence. When his eyelids flickered, glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. Up until that moment I’d been convincing myself that I wanted to get the measure of him, catch him with his guard down. But as the question faltered between us, I realised I hadn’t come to his room to question him at all.

I’d come to reassure him.

“I’m holding up,” I said gently, then tucked the blanket over both of our legs. “Like, it sucks not being able to help you guys with boxes from the attic and stuff. And sometimes I forget where my stitches are, and do a silly stretch or something. But honestly, it’s just a bit sore. I’m not going to burst or fall apart or anything.”

I gave him an encouraging nod- he’d almost drained the mug. It wasn’t till he put it down that I saw his mouth had pulled uneven, his eyes full to the brim.

“Oh hun, come here…” I gathered him into a clumsy hug, laughing when we both aimed for each other’s wrong shoulder.

“I’m pretty useless with hauling those boxes even on a good day,” Justin mumbled, then attempted to clear his throat. With his brow heavy against my neck, I wondered if he didn’t feel slightly feverish. “All the dust sets off my asthma.”

“We’ll just have to do double-time on the unpacking,” I agreed. “But really…” I twitched him a smile, “…I’m just happy to be home.”

Justin nodded fiercely, making a noise that sounded halfway between a hiccup and a sob. I hunted around for stray tissues again.

“I was like this the whole time you know,” he said eventually, cringing as he tried to blow his nose. “I found your copy of _Northanger Abbey_ in the grass outside. It must’ve fallen from the swing. And then I saw the library date stamp, and realised you’d missed returning it, and I couldn’t bring myself to- I _couldn’t_ -” He squinted, spreading his arms in a hopeless gesture as his voice cracked, and his shoulders began to shake in earnest.

“I know, I know…” I held him, clutching fast to the notion that I did. That our regrets somehow ran the same vein. That my loss was every bit as permanent, stung as much as if I _had_ been stabbed.

It didn’t work.

“You would’ve been in big trouble if you took it back,” I managed, pinching him at the waist. “My shelf of unlawfully obtained Trinity literature isn’t going to collect itself.”

He gave a leaky sort of chuckle, and I knew I had made the right call.

“I think I’ve still got one or two stashed from first year,” he admitted. “Probably for the best I kept a low profile.”

“You’ll have to autograph me a wanted poster,” I teased, and he laughed again. I waited while he smudged his sleeve beneath his glasses, then gently bumped my knee to his elbow. “Come down for a bit? I need at least one person I can beat in gin rummy.”

Justin swatted my hand, fond. “And have Rafe gripe that I’m sneezing all over him? Spare me.”

“Well-” I started, “to be fair-”

“That was an _accident_ ,” Justin interjected. “ _Ages_ ago. And I _apologised_.”

I fixed him back under the bedcovers, making sure he had an extra cardigan and glass of water within reach. It wasn’t until I had the empty breakfast tray balanced on my hip that I noticed the music box, nestled between his class notes and kerosene lantern. Without thinking, I traced my thumb along the edge, worn smooth with use. Like everything in the house, you couldn’t help feel it had moved there of its own accord, and simply appeared at the moment it wished to be found.

“Maybe Abby brought it in,” Justin suggested, plucking the thought as it slid through my fingers. “I was passed-out most of the afternoon.”

“Maybe,” I whispered. The box was already wound when I creaked it open, the tune warmer than I remembered. Setting it at his windowsill, I could’ve almost imagined a reed pipe were playing down in the garden, and this was all merely an echo of a far more complex score. When I turned back, Justin’s eyes had fallen shut, and for all I knew, he was already dancing alongside.

 

**\- II -**

When I was working back in Murder, how you pulled up in the morning was a calling card of how hard you were working a case. Breeze in at eight with a stack of leads and alphabetised files, you were clearly skiving. Kick in at nine with a double-shot and three cigarettes under your belt, and the rest of the squad knew you weren’t mucking around. I got the hang of looking beat, though truthfully, early starts have never bothered me. Just like there’s a certain crackle which only surges through midnight, there’s a stillness which only breaks at dawn, and you always need the latter to piece together the former.

I often think of my time in the house as a collision of extremes, all black and all white, nothing in halves. We had those midnights, that darkness, where everything we said and did happened in an instant and spiralled into a thousand lives, like all the books we ever read. The mornings when it was just us, the kettle, and Daniel smiling and quoting Faust while he passed around eggs and toast. And sometimes, in the split second when I blinked between, I could feel the whole world slide from one to the other. And I never knew which was which.

-

“This isn’t coffee.”

Rafe slouched against the kitchen doorway, staring down at his mug like a jilted lover. His dressing gown had more holes than a shooting gallery, his hair pointing in more directions than the Dublin intersect.

“Morning,” Daniel replied easily, eyes never leaving his book.

“I used the pot to make Ceylon Orange Pekoe,” said Abby, the steam from her china teacup winding tendrils as she blew at the surface. “It’s brighter than English Breakfast, not quite as floral as the Early Grey. I think you’ll like it, actually.”

Rafe raised his mug again for a tentative sniff, while I grinned and spread my left hand, holding up another three fingers on the right. “Five for crispness and aroma, bonus three for subtlety and distinctive amber hue.”

“At least another half-point for fruity undertones,” Justin piped-in from the armchair, peering at his glass in the sunlight. “Seconding Lexie on distinctive hue, although that’s more of a caramel from where I’m sitting.”

“The buttery finish certainly adds to the body,” Daniel mused, gently swirling his cup with a spoon. “Uncharacteristic of the blend, but a welcome surprise.”

Rafe stood blinking at us, then at the tea, then us again. “So, how much of this do I have to drink to swap you lot for my housemates again?”

I snorted mid-sip, and Abby aimed one of the velveteen cushions in Rafe’s general direction. Rafe spluttered as he tried to swallow and catch at the same time, then made his way to the sofa regardless. He choose my lap as a pillow and Abby’s for his socked feet.

“I’ll make us some toast.” Daniel got up from his chair. With Daniel, it was never really a question.

I pulled the patchwork quilt over Rafe’s middle. He promptly hitched it all the way over his head.

“Poor thing,” Abby winked at me, “seems our craft project’s coming in handy already.”

Abby and I had been working on the quilt for the last week, our patchwork squares becoming progressively more complex, and, according to Rafe, progressively more disquieting in subject matter. Personally, I found all nine cross-stitched circles of Dante’s Inferno to be poignant, but hey, I’m also not the first to say that art is in the eye of the beholder. I pretend-threaded my needle to add another few stitches whilst he sprawled underneath.

“Go right ahead,” came the husky voice from my lap, and Abby and I exchanged guilty smirks. “Free acupuncture.”

“ _Primum non nocere_ ,” I patted his head, figuring the Latin iteration of the Hippocratic Oath wouldn’t be out of place in present company. “Also, stop hypothesising my intentions.”

“Then stop being so _obvious_ ,” Rafe threw us an affectionate glare, rumpling back the quilt as he tried to get comfortable. It didn’t seem to be working.

“Achy?” Justin ventured, setting down his tea as if he couldn’t bear to relax when Rafe was hungover.

“Like I’ve been hit by a lorry,” Rafe sighed, glancing toward yesterday’s wine and cigarettes. “Wouldn’t mind swapping the Ceylon Orange for something with a tad more numbing potential, truth be told.”

“Toast first,” Daniel nodded, setting the plate on our makeshift cards-table. I hadn’t noticed him walk back in. “Vices are better on a full stomach.”

“Tell that to Blake and Shelley,” Rafe retorted, his energy picking up at the chance for a rebuttal. “Nothing worth reading ever started with marmalade spread and sobriety.”

“When you arrive in the eighteenth century, I’m sure you’ll enjoy telling them yourself,” Daniel said mildly, settling back to his book. “Be sure to send us a postcard.”

“Such a _romantic_ , Rafe,” Abby said fondly.

“Come along with me,” Rafe nudged her with his knee, clearly weighing up whether he could eat in his present position and not get scolded for crumbs on the quilt. “You’d fit right in as a revolutionist. And you as an anarchist,” he added to Daniel.

“You _do_ realise we still have revolutionists and anarchists in _this_ century,” Justin huffed, our talk of booze and time-travel enough to inspire him to start binning the empty wine bottles.

“And you think we don’t have romantics?” Rafe called through a mouthful of toast.

“I wouldn’t know.” Justin said primly, disappearing into the kitchen to grab a second rubbish bag. Abby and I exchanged another look.

“Sunroom, today?” Daniel proposed, tucking a slip of a bookmark into _The Mysteries of Udolpho_.

“Such perfect weather for it,” Abby breathed, turning as a sheet of dusty light filtered in from the window. A prickle of anticipation bloomed beneath my skin.

It was always the same, every time we geared up to work on the house. For no reason that I could quite pin down, those hours spent sanding and stripping fell nothing short of tranquil, occasionally tipping to surreal. The last session had been grouting tiles in the bathroom, and it wasn’t until Daniel had placed his hands over mine that I realised my palms were torn bloody and raw from the effort. Had the stuff not needed to dry, I swear I would’ve continued all night.

I must have been looking at my hands at that point, but I only noticed when Rafe interlaced our fingers, giving a reassuring squeeze. I shook myself out of the reverie, glancing up at him.

“S’alright,” he said gently, once again pocketing my thoughts. “We’ll be keeping a close eye on you, band-aids at the ready.”

“Cheers,” I laughed, squeezing back. I remember wondering, when they’d mopped up my blisters in the bathroom that time; whether it really was the last they’d seen me bleed.

 

**\- III -**

It was Jim Naylor who later put it into words in the interview room. He said plenty in Glenskehy thought Whitethorn House had dealings with fairies or the devil, depending which way your mind worked. And no matter how many times Frank sniggered, or Sam offered an easy ‘ah, sure,’ nothing prepared me for the way the suggestion left a cold lump at my throat, like someone had walked over my grave. Because the thing is, it was hardly the first time I considered it. Superstition, folklore, or just a lot of bad blood, some things are made real by the very fact that we breathe life into them. And, the longer I stayed, the clearer it became- this wasn’t a notion laid to rest with our grandfathers. It was a conception alive and kicking, crawling into every stare and whisper, shattering through our windows in bricks and scrawled letters. The locals saw us as fae, as daemons, as changelings. They believed the old tales.

It was that _conviction_ , like all of our friendship, the sum of our ideals, which made us into whatever it was they feared. That’s what I told myself, at least. And so it wasn’t until I heard Naylor’s statement, saw him cross himself at the interview table, that I realised what that cold little lump even meant. I felt guilty. I felt _caught_. To everyone else, he was spouting village-folk nonsense. But to me, to Abby, Rafe and Daniel… we’d believed them all along.

-

“If Horace Walpole wrote me into _The Castle of Otranto_ , who would I be?”

Abby’s legs drifted back and forth from the garden swing, a packet of almond shortbread between us. The guys were lying spread-eagle on the grass, an assortment of picnic blankets keeping various bits of them dry while we stargazed.

“Isabella,” Justin said carefully, as if it were somehow a trick question. “Steadfast, noble, insightful. She prevailed with everything to lose.”

“Matilda, obviously,” Rafe drawled, cigarette smoke leaking from the edges of his smile. “Tragic. Forbidden. Complicated as fuck. If you don’t take the role, I will.” He ducked as Abby threw a biscuit at him, then dusted it off and popped it into his mouth.

“I think you’re a good fit for Theodore,” Daniel said softly. “No one took notice of him, in the beginning. Until he found himself imprisoned for insolence, escaping for love, and staying for destiny. Not too shabby for a man who started as a plot device.”

I noticed we often fell silent when Daniel spoke. It wasn’t so much that he commanded attention, or even asked for it. But Daniel never wasted anything- not time, nor thoughts, nor words. And you couldn’t help feel if you missed it, you’d missed glimpsing the very thing you never knew you needed, and the moment would never, ever pass you by again.

I was spared voicing an analysis of my own when Rafe attempted to stifle a yawn, failing miserably and earning himself a concerned tut from Justin.

“Bed for an early start?” Daniel suggested, skipping an absentminded hand over Rafe’s hair.

“Mm,” Rafe agreed. “Bed, yes. Not so sure about an early start.”

Daniel smiled, a small glimmer of a thing, and utterly unreadable.

“Lexie and I’ll stay a while longer,” Abby murmured, shooting me an equally indecipherable look. “Girl talk.”

If Daniel was curious, he made no sign of it, nodding as he rose to his feet. He held out both hands to pull up the other two.

“Stay warm,” Justin frowned, gathering his picnic blanket and wrapping it around Abby’s shoulders. The rest of us were rugged up in scarves and woollens, but somehow Abby had spent the evening in a flowing lace peasant skirt and camisole without so much as a shiver.

They left us, and we sat listening to the cicadas, munching the occasional square of shortbread until Daniel’s bedroom light faded to black.

“I wanted to show you something,” Abby said, her boots making no sound as she stood from the swing.

“Out here?”

I followed her through the garden, ducking beneath the wilting cherry blossom and strangle of hawthorn at the gates. Abby was always finding things in the house- trinkets and secrets and faded photographs always liked her best. But we’d never explored the woods or village laneways together, and certainly not in darkness.

“I have an idea of who’s been vandalising our house.”

My face must have shown my surprise, for she took my hand in hers.

“Well, it isn’t ghosts or spirits, is it?” She forced a laugh- a light, bubbling melody that sent chills down my spine. “It’s a local. Or a number of locals. And I think I know where we’ll find them.”

She darted out of reach before I could hold on, her steps nimble, white skirt dancing at her ankles.

“Do we even _want_ to find them?” I tried, the night air cold and tight in my chest as I jogged to keep up. “Alone? Without anyone knowing where we’ve gone?”

She was turning corners toward the village like we’d walked there all our lives, detouring puddles and dips and cracks without pause. It wasn’t until I heard the high-pitched note in my own voice that it truly occurred to me how bad of an idea it was, and how quickly it could turn even worse.

“Abby, please, this is dangerous.” I stopped, scanning for familiar landmarks. The streets of Glenskehy were haphazard at best, ever narrower as we coiled toward the town centre. As much as I hated what I was about to say next, it was the only thing I could think of that had a chance of making her listen. “Let’s go back and grab the guys. Let’s wake Daniel. Rafe would jump at the chance to hunt down these assholes.”

It was enough to spin her around for a second, her smile bright and flush under one of the lamplights. My heart sank as she slowly shook her head, then pressed a single finger to her lips.

“ _Shhhh…_ ”

With her other hand she beckoned me, indicating a splinter of an alleyway just out of reach of the lamplight. Not too far in the distance, I could hear the slurred voices of a group leaving the pub, closer and closer by the second. Cursing myself for not carrying my weapon, I followed after her, making it into the pool of shadow only a moment before several men rounded the corner.

“The fucking Marches. I thought they’d died-out with the old git, now we good as have five more.”

Abby flashed me a wink, and I dug my nails into her palm. My heartbeat simmered in my chest.

“See?” Abby whispered, standing on tiptoe to reach my ear. “They get pissed, talk shit, and Whitethorn House just happens to be on the way. Explains why the incidents always happen after closing time.”

She was right, of course. But I didn’t need the action replay to believe her. These people didn’t think of us as human. And if they caught us, I had no doubt they wouldn’t treat us as such.

“Wait up- gotta take a slash.”

My throat closed, a surge of adrenaline gritting my jaw and steadying my legs. I may not have had my gun, but I was trained in close combat and self-defence. We had surprise as an advantage. And, from the tilt to their voices, they were bordering from drunk to witless. I poised for whoever appeared before us. Abby, meanwhile, stood still and serene, her hair fluttering about her shoulders, though there was little breeze. She waited, and at the very moment the brutish face rounded the corner, stepped into a patch of moonlight, which by some chance seemed to appear just for her.

The man stopped. Declan Bannon. I recognised him from the line-up, suddenly thankful it were dark enough to obscure my features. Looking back though, I’m not sure he could have taken his stare from Abby if he’d wanted to. He stood frozen and gaping, mouth soft and ruddy cheeks paling as he took her in. He blinked, then started crossing himself while Abby reached a hand toward him, as if to touch his face. He leapt back in alarm, spitting old Irish under his breath.

“Stay away from our house,” Abby whispered, the words a pale fog on the air. “Else you call us from the threshold.”

His entire face contorted, and for a moment I thought my evening might end in reviving this beer-addled idiot from a dead faint. But then he nodded, tripped over his feet, and stumbled back toward his mates, fly still half-undone.

“Move,” was all he said, hustling the group out of sight and earshot no sooner had his legs caught up with his brain.

“ _Jesus_ ,” I exhaled, bracing my palms against my knees. “Jesus fucking Christ, Abby, what the fuck was that?”

She choked out a giggle, more with relief than amusement, and after a moment I started grinning too, feeling slightly delirious in our victory.

“Frightened the living daylights out of him,” Abby swallowed, checking the lanes were empty before we bolted for the house. “Hopefully he doesn’t forget.”

I never again crossed paths with Declan Bannon since that evening, though in truth, I doubt he ever forgot. I know I never did- I can still see his sunken eyes, his pallor draining at the moment he realised he was seeing a fae, or a changeling, or both. And to this day, I still can’t look Frank in the eye and say that he didn’t. That night was the first and last Abby and I ever spoke of it. And the flowing lace skirt disappeared back into the attic, or the one of the spare rooms, or wherever it was Abby found it. If she even wore it at all.

 

**\- IV -**

It stormed the next day. First came the deluge, rattling and raking at the windows, then a heady, swollen fog, which licked beneath the doorframe and sent drips through all the cracks we hadn’t sealed. We were on restoration duty. Rafe had found a number of old portraits- under the kitchen sink, would you believe it- and Daniel and Justin had prepared an emulsion to remove the mould whilst keeping the oilwork intact. It scented the air a summery lemon and lavender, which felt oddly out of place whilst peels of thunder bit over the horizon.

I was somehow nominated for collateral damage control. In other words, laying moth-eaten bedsheets over the floorboards to catch our citrus and melted-mould drips. Abby was mostly concerned with figuring out who the paintings actually depicted, but so far what records the Marches had kept turned up nothing.

“Was the house ever used during the war?” she said suddenly, pacing to the mantelpiece where we kept the jar of spare buttons. I’d sorted them only a few days ago, after accidentally popping the clasp on one of our blazers. There had been a couple that looked decidedly military, but I didn’t care to wage my knowledge of Irish history against Daniel without cause. I felt he watched me more and more in those last days, though I can say in all certainty, I never caught him doing so. The alternative, of course, was that I was losing my nerve, seeing shapes where there were only shadows. And so I remained wary.

“I don’t believe so. Not in a formal capacity, at least.” Daniel held his paintbrush to the portrait of a hunter, applying sweeping strokes where a deerstalker obscured the subject’s eyes. He had near finished repairing the piece, whilst the rest of us were still blotting through layers of caked dust.

“It just doesn’t make sense though,” Abby sighed, squinting beseechingly at her portrait of a man in a general’s uniform. “None of these people are a match for anyone in the last three generations of the March family. But they aren’t cheap commissions either. Someone clearly wanted to remember them.”

Rafe pulled a face- his vigorous scrubbing had accidentally splattered solvent in his eye- then held his painting at arms length. “Friends? Suitors? The Marches were safekeeping them for someone else?”

“Perhaps someone in the March family _was_ an artist,” Justin said quietly. “They weren’t exactly kept in good nick. Maybe these were just… practice.”

“I like that one,” Daniel raised an eyebrow, something close to charmed. “And if my family today holds anything of a candle to three generations ago, I’ve no doubt the artist never lived to see them displayed in these halls. We’ll have to fix that.”

He was on his feet without hesitation, surveying the wallpaper until he decided on a spot. It was easy enough to tap a nail into the crumbling plaster, though we all set down what we were doing to watch. It was with a sense of solemn ceremony that Daniel secured the hatted figure in place, then dusted off his hands, fixing us with a gentler smile. The hunter remained brooding as ever.

“He looks like a detective,” Abby mused, her own painting forgotten. “I feel like a Hansom cab and Doctor John Watson are going to pull up beside him any second now, and that whole rifle-and-bloodied-deer thing was all just a clever ruse.”

She threw me a secret smile- for students of Bronte, Arthur Conan Doyle was somewhat of a guilty indulgence- and I missed returning it by a split second. _He looks like a detective._ I could feel Daniel’s stare, and a small part of me wondered if he hadn’t made the association all along.

“Ooh look- it’s stopped raining.” I stretched my arms over my head, forcing my attention to wander. _Don’t hesitate, don’t look back._ “Anyone feel like a walk? Any more lavender fumes and I’ll be starting the next expressionist movement.”

Rafe stopped chewing his paintbrush to smirk, and even Daniel’s eyes creased at the corners.

“Yes please,” Justin sniffled, the rims of his eyelids red and irritated. “I’ve just spent three dratted hours moving dirt from one side of this painting to the other.”

“I see where you were going with it though,” Rafe said gravely.

“Move it back and call it postmodern,” Daniel shrugged.

I tried my best not to grin, but once Abby started it was a lost cause. Justin held out the longest, but after Rafe took it upon himself to hang the grime-steaked portrait next to Daniel’s perfect one, we all started giggling like fools.

“I’m getting jackets,” Abby veered up the stairs, wrenching open the shared closet with a bang that echoed all the way down the hall. Rafe and Justin were hauling wellington boots from the storage chest, and I was running around extinguishing candles and dunking the paintbrushes in a jar of methylated spirits. Daniel stood gazing at the drawing room window, but when he turned around, I could see that strange fever-pitch had taken him too.

“There used to be a hedge maze, you know,” he said delicately. “Running off the main garden, brooking the gap to the woods. Overgrown now, naturally. But we could take a ramble.”

The others had gathered behind, keys and cigarette packets in hand. But Daniel was only looking at me. Asking me. If there was a challenge in his tone, he hid it well. Or perhaps I’d turned too many corners by then to see it. Perhaps I was lost from the start.

“Are you kidding?” I burst out, reaching for the doorknob. “How did I not know about this? I’m in.”

“Right behind you,” said Rafe. Abby’s eyes shone determined as she took Justin’s hand.

We pushed into the drizzled fog, my boots clattering over the stone steps and slipping on the muddied grass. We usually kept the garden in a state of organised chaos, but in the aftermath of that storm, even the flowerbeds seemed to have their hackles up, every thorn or wisp of bracken snagging at my ankles. The mist itself was dense and muggy, and every time a shaft of light sluiced through the vapour, I was surprised to see how far we’d separated in a matter of seconds.

Daniel took the lead at some point, veering toward the fountain. With its archways and turrets overflowing from the rain, it was in that moment that I glimpsed what the place might’ve looked like at the turn of the century. Before that, I’d always assumed the leaping gargoyles were meant to inspire terror. But as we checked our pace, panting and whispering and reaching for one another in the fog, I wondered if they hadn’t risen to life to warn us. With their weeping fangs, limbs stretched and clawing mid-stride, I guessed of course that the danger was in the maze. But in piecing together what fragments I have left of that day, it wasn’t until later that I realised.

They were staring at the house the whole time.

“This is where it begins,” said Daniel. He stepped beneath the honeysuckle, which had blown loose over the maze entrance like scattered snow. “Shall we see who first makes it to the end?”

“You must’ve done it before,” Rafe tested, wary. Justin gave a visible shudder, and Rafe put an arm around his shoulders.

“Not even once,” Daniel replied. For all the things he was, a liar was not one of them. “The middle is likely lost to weeds and ivy, but I’m certain of another exit on the wood-side. And almost all directions would eventually lead us there.”

“I’ll wait for you when I arrive,” Abby winked, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. She was gone without a second glance, running the leftmost path as if she’d known the way all along.

“I don’t think I can.” Justin whispered, his inhale crackling in his throat. He stood rooted to the spot, glasses trembling over his nose.

“You’re alright- come with me,” Rafe said gently. Justin raked a breath, fists clenched in his pockets as they teetered on the edge. They looked at each other, Rafe dipping his head to rest his brow at Justin’s. Then, as if knowing the exact moment when the other would break, turned and took the maze side by side, heads high and coats billowing in the wind.

“And then there were two,” Daniel offered. There was no goading, not even a hint of a dare. To be honest, I know I could have turned back then, and all he would’ve asked is whether I wished for him to wait with me.

“I’ll give you a head start,” I grinned, determined. “You’ll need it.”

He stared at me, quiet and dignified, dark hair cutting across his face in the breeze. I realised how seldom I met his eyes then, and whether they had always been so frighteningly grey.

“Then may the best man win,” he said, holding out his hand in earnest. I gripped it, firm and sure, and he strode between the leaves, quickly sweeping into nowhere. I flinched a last glance over my shoulder. With a jilt of unease, I saw nothing but roiling mist, barely a roof tile suspended above the green. I had never felt more alone.

“Right,” I said to myself, stuffing my hands beneath my overcoat. Of course, my intention had always been to follow him. There were enough twists and turns to make it possible, at least from the outset. But for no reason I can fathom, I found myself jogging in entirely the opposite direction. I’d like to think it was some bizarre sense of _I can do this_. That I wanted to solve the puzzle, beat the maze, and pin down Lexie’s killer once and for all. Sometimes, when I wake up soaked and screaming and dripping sweat, I still pretend that was the case.

“Justin? Was that you?” Abby’s voice washed clear and high over the hedge. I kept going. I remembered once reading that the best way to approach a labyrinth was to always choose the same direction- north, or east, say- and never deviate. I almost burst out laughing when I realised the source of that advice had actually been a Nancy Drew novel, and pictured Frank’s face when I told him who I was modelling my detective work on these days.

“Rafe?” Justin sounded frantic, and not at all like he had heard Abby. “Where are you off to? That’s a dead end, you know. Rafe?”

They all sounded so close, and I kept expecting to run into them at every bend. The maze was arranged in a series of concentric belts, and from what I could tell, I was still on the outer. At one point I attempted to push my arms through the shrubbery for a peek ahead, and was rewarded with an assortment of tiny scratches from my elbows to my fingertips, which became ever more itchy and inflamed as I went on.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t run- I needed to keep my bearings, and a level head. But I made that promise when I thought the worst case scenario would be going around in circles, or possibly an embarrassing shout for assistance. I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the howl, guttural and unbridled, something of gods and monsters, not men and beasts. And then I was sprinting, to where I didn’t know. The silence in the moments that followed that dreadful baying were suffocating, my lips moving soundless as I tried to voice the names of the others. The words wouldn’t come. My shadow stretched before me as I dodged pebbles and tree roots, the welts on my arms smudging blood against my waist. I sensed something move behind me, and spun on my heel, teeth clenched as I fought not to scream.

_Cassie, Cassie…_

I felt my feet slide beneath me, the ground too damp for such an abrupt halt. I saw his face as I fell, torn and twisted as he reached for my hands, trying to brace me for the impact. It still hurt.

_You’re here. Cassie. You’re here…_

I spun my head right and left, bursts of colour swooping from my vision. My eyes blurred, and I spoke without meaning to, without hesitation or inhibition. In some ways, it was the first time I had said a single word to him that I considered wholly true.

“My name is Lexie,” I mumbled, shaking. “My name is Lexie Madison.”

His eyebrows tipped in surprise, and he dropped to his knees, pulling me tight against his chest.

“And mine is Daniel March,” he said, his voice pressed coarse against my hair. “My name is Daniel March, and I am not losing you again.”

He glared at me with such ferocity then, and I knew for all his calm and manners, it took every bit of his strength not to say more. Instead, he slipped his arms beneath my knees and shoulders, lifting me clear off the ground as he stood.

As my adrenaline ebbed below the swell, the others came into focus, faces taut with worry. It was then that I realised what they were actually saying, which wasn’t Cassie at all.

“ _Lexie_ , you made it, you ran right past the exit.” Justin’s tone was pinched and flighty, he clearly hadn’t escaped without a few scares of his own. “We thought you didn’t see us!”

“Honey, what happened to your _arms_?” Abby wailed, and I caught a glimpse of my scratches, far nastier than I first imagined. I started to suspect I had tried to reach through a rosebush, rather than a hedge.

“That howl,” I managed, my throat dry and tacky. Daniel gave a sharp glance downward as we walked, and I realised he was carrying me back to the house. “What was that awful howling?”

Nobody said anything for a moment, and in my fading delirium, I wondered if they hadn’t all conspired to terrify me. But then my senses kicked-in, and I saw their stares were blank confusion, no more sinister than Daniel’s concern.

“No one was howling, Lexie,” Rafe reached to squeeze my shoulder, and I realised his cheeks were streaked with tears. I had never seen Rafe cry. “You just got a fright is all… and gave us a fright too.” He tried to smile, grazing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “We’ve never seen you panic like that.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen me panic like that either,” I said weakly. Another truth. I was on a roll. “I’m so sorry, guys.”

Daniel made a small, sharp sound, dismissing the apology as soon as I’d uttered it. “Please,” he said, firm. “Don’t be.”

Abby was shaking her head, stern; and Justin looked like he might be sick, which occasionally happened when he got too anxious or upset.

“Well, we did say the hunter was Sherlock Holmes,” I croaked, finally managing a grin. My whole body felt bruised and flimsy. “I guess we can now safely say I had _The Baskerville Hounds_ on my mind.”

“It’s _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ ,” Daniel corrected, not unkindly. The others exchanged glances.

 _Shit._ I felt my muscles tense with apprehension. Lexie would have known that.

“No, no,” I insisted, rallying one last time. “I’m definitely talking about _The Baskerville Hounds_. They played backup for Elvis at all three of his Memphis tours.”

There was a moment of silence, before Daniel brimmed to one of his rare, fond smiles, and I could tell the silly comment had done the trick. A flicker of relief passed around the group, Rafe releasing his vice-grip at my shoulder to chuckle and pat my elbow instead.

“Bed for you,” Abby said as we neared the house. “Bed and calamine lotion on those scratches, before you swell up like a pumpkin.”

They all nodded, and whilst I put up a reasonable protest to remain in character, in truth I was ready to collapse. Daniel didn’t set me down until our boots kicked over the threshold, and I’m ashamed to admit that my legs still felt like jelly even then. I hugged Rafe and Justin goodnight, then Abby after she’d brought hot cocoa to my bedroom. I didn’t think I’d see Daniel again. But once again, I was wrong.

“Lexie?”

He tapped twice at my door with a knuckle, soft, in case I was sleeping I presume. I had the light out, and I could’ve easily pretended. Frank would’ve bent me over backwards had I passed up a one-on-one with a suspect in favour of sleep, but that wasn’t why I answered. It was the only chance I had of making it out of that maze.

“Door’s open,” I called, thumbing my lighter to one of the dilapidated candles on my bedside. Daniel closed the latch carefully behind, lending me one of those sweet, grave expressions that I couldn’t help wish I saw more often. Our lives were rarely so sincere.

“Dare I ask how heavy I was?” I twitched him a smirk. I knew he’d say whatever he wanted to say in his own time, and the banter came easier on my own turf.

“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you with my answer,” Daniel measured, stepping over a few clothes that hadn’t made to back to the wardrobe. “In our first year, I had to carry Rafe a half-mile from Trinity pub to his old flat. All rescues since have thankfully paled in comparison.”

“Yikes,” I gave a low laugh, the image of a younger, just-as-stoic Daniel hoisting a younger, just-as-drunk Rafe across the campus was about as amusing as it sounded.

“Indeed,” Daniel sighed, kneeling by the mattress. I would’ve invited him to sit beside me, but he’d made up his mind, allowing his head to lean against my blanket instead. It made him look far less intimidating, a fact I’m sure he was well aware of.

“I feel like a right eejit about earlier,” I huffed, crossing my legs beneath the sheets. “Talk about a freak out, huh?”

Daniel frowned, then laid his arm loose across the bedcover, palm up. Tentative, I placed my hand in his. It was more reassuring than I wanted to acknowledge, and neither of us let go.

“I didn’t come looking for an explanation,” he said gently. “And nor do you owe me one. I missed you.”

“You’ve had my company since sunrise,” I teased, earning another quiet smile.

“Whilst you were away, Lexie. I came to the conclusion that you were never coming back.”

He breathed out, a heavy, troubled weight to it. I ran my fingers over the dips of his knuckles, surprised to find them scraped and untended. It didn’t ease my guilt to realise that was probably from scooping me off the gravelled pathway.

“Counted your chickens too soon then,” I winked. Then, on impulse, I brought his hand to my lips, kissing the worst of the grazes. He gave me a searching look, then softened somehow, oddly touched. We sat like that awhile, Daniel’s face half-buried in my quilt, my arms all white and blotchy with Abby’s calamine lotion. At some point my eyes started watering, and I could only hope he thought it a lingering physical response to the panic.

“I should let you rest.” He gave an indiscernible dip of his head, and I gathered he felt it improper to call attention to it. “I believe I’ve done enough to waylay doctors’ orders as it stands. I’m glad to see you feeling better.”

“You’re welcome to pull up a pillow,” I yawned, the mattress squeaking in protest. It was a larger single then most, but Daniel was tall on a good day.

“Don’t tempt me,” he narrowed an eye, affectionate, then slowly rose to stand. “I worry, you know.”

The candlelight feathered the edges of his features, and I saw his smile turn sad. I knew then that there was more to it than my wellbeing, that the stakes had been higher than most people could comprehend. We were the threads that held together each other’s worlds, and, by choice or circumstance, it was Daniel who cinched us at the seams. He never stood to lose a companion. He stood to lose everything.

“Rest,” Daniel said again, noticing my eyes following him to the dressing table. He peered into the three-way mirror, the cracks and age-spots tarnishing his reflection rather like one of the portraits downstairs. His gaze reached for me through the frame, so very far away. My own expression looked warped and rusty from a distance, and I wondered if things wouldn’t be so much clearer if we could all just step through the glass.

Daniel turned back to face me.

“One day,” he murmured.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> Comments and kudos are always adored and appreciated! (or feel free to say hello and talk to me about the books! always!) *^^*)


End file.
